FRAN. Why, doubt it not; her spirit may be such.
MR GOUR. Why, will it be?
PHIL. Yet stay, I have some hope.
Mother, why, mother, why, hear ye[438]:
Give me your hand; it is no more but thus;
'Tis easy labour to shake hands with her:
Little[439] breath is spent in speaking of fair words,
When wrath hath violent delivery.
MR BAR. What, shall we be resolv'd?
MRS BAR. O husband, stay!—
Stay, Master Goursey: though your wife doth hate me,
And bears unto me malice infinite
And endless, yet I will respect your safeties;
I would not have you perish by our means:
I must confess that only suspect,
And no proof else, hath fed my hate to her.
MRS GOUR. And, husband, I protest by heaven and earth
That her suspect is causeless and unjust,
And that I ne'er had such a vild[440] intent;
Harm she imagin'd, where as none was meant.
PHIL. Lo, sir, what would ye more?
MR BAR. Yes, Philip, this;
That I confirm him in my innocence
By this large universe.
MR GOUR. By that I swear,
I'll credit none of you, until I hear
Friendship concluded straight between them two:
If I see that they willingly will do,
Then I'll imagine all suspicion ends;
I may be then assured, they being friends.
PHIL. Mother, make full my wish, and be it so.